


coming up on common

by tribunal



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Church talk, F/M, Knitting, Pre-Relationship, john's there but unnamed so I feel as though that should be warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 05:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17801732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: for my Discord server's "Pal!-entine's Day", where we showed our appreciation for one another by making content for each other! This one's for @pathfinderyderss over on Tumblr; please enjoy!





	coming up on common

**Author's Note:**

> for my Discord server's "Pal!-entine's Day", where we showed our appreciation for one another by making content for each other! This one's for @pathfinderyderss over on Tumblr; please enjoy!

_Knit two, knit one, yarn over before knitting two more stitches, finagle your fingers in the unused workings of the central double decrease, knit two more before yarning over, repeat from the third knit stitch..._

When the youth minister of Fall's End Baptist proposed a "crossover event", a melding between their crowd and that of the Project at Eden's Gate, she'll admit she did so half-cocked, with naught but Pastor Jerome's weary grace as her lead-in. "It could be good!" She promised, all slight smiles and the folding of hands atop one another in her lap. "Welcoming the newcomers like that; could be the step to something sweeter."

He's not fully convinced until later, when he mentions it at dinnertime and his daughter pipes up, throws in her lot with the youth minister--with Bridget. Like all excellent fathers, like any worth their salt, Jerome crumples at his daughter's dimples, waves away his permission with a resigned tilt to his brow.

_For rows two and all the following designated "wrong" rows, you'll simply be knitting two, then purling twenty-five, then knitting two more before ending the row._

Despite having no idea of what she was doing, events progressed quickly. Flyers were made up, her own crowd printing out a storm before forming some sort of efficiency Voltron and sticking each flyer up around the County: in places you always look, but never think about. Mary May's dive boasted about twenty of them at any given point, neat things with eye-popping colors and curling font that drew the eye. A bit eldritchy; every time she took one down, another would pop up in its place.

(Bridget herself swore she didn't add glitter to the decorations, to the flyers, but it still popped up. And maybe she said an extra prayer or two when asked. _The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy._ And Minister Campion is no less trustworthy than when she first got here; she's all good. Probably. Maybe add in an extra prayer there?)

No matter where she turned, though, Jerome's daughter was there, a coil of natural curls always wrapped around a finger. Directing plans, drawing up events, calling in a caterer? Admittedly, the flurry of her made Bridget wonder _why in God's name she was there_? Aside from the fact that this whole....shindig was her idea in the first place, she could just be at home curled under handmade blankets. Binge-watching whatever Netflix recommended, or maybe crossing out a few more hours of her gaming queue.

Slothful, perhaps. So she stays, finds herself finding her flow around the younger Jeffries.

"We've got a gap in time in the afternoon, Minister Campion." And the teen shows Bridget where the gap is, the decorations of her bullet journal doing little to distract from her delicate, detailed to-do list. One of these days (sometime soon), Bridget's gonna have her own go at a bujo. You know, if her handwriting's not completely abysmal.

But she leans forward, has to squint a bit at the too-tiny handwriting. "So there is, Sister Jeffries. Any ideas on how to fill it?" Her smile is small, but genuine, sisterly affection shining in her gaze as she turns it to the girl holding the clipboard. Maybe becoming a minister was good for her; every single youth under her care feels more like an extension of family than someone she has to impress to stay relevant. With Pastor Jerome as a mentor and the rest of the congregation showing her the mercy of kindness, she feels light.

Even planning something as stressful as this. Seriously? A fellowship event? On such short notice? Was it a lapse in judgment or, uh, "the spirit speaking through her"? Perhaps it's the latter and not insomnia making her mouth faster than her brain. Perhaps curiosity won out and she really, really just wants to know what's up with the newcomers and their curious flock?

"Actually, I was hoping you could knit!" The teen beside Bridget snaps her from her wandering thoughts, makes her blink owlishly. "Y-You know, because the caterer won't be quite set up; I figured you'd enjoy being able to teach everyone how!" Oh, no, she looks sheepish now, brows tilting inwards, and it takes everything Bridget has to not immediately lean in for a bruising hug.

Instead, she lays a fist on her heart, bows slightly to hear the ensuing giggles. "Whatever you need, Sister. I'm here to help." 

And perhaps that was what settled her being in _this_ situation. Honestly, whatever possessed her to pick a shawl as a bunch of first-timer's introduction to knitting is anyone's guess. She'd seen the pattern on Ravelry, assumed it'd be easy to pick up, and went on to buy more yarn for the stash (more yarn she'll never be free from; is this gluttony or just pitiful planning?), picking up some on-sale needles for the newcomers. Not entirely sure how many people from the Project had RSVP'd, but she erred on the side of caution. Twenty pairs of the same needles? That's...a decent amount, right? She had a few in her own stash, wouldn't have to break the bank _too_ much, God willing.

It'll be fine. It'll be _fiiiiine_.

 

In the end, there were about fifteen, a few more adults than she expected (she only really planned for a handful of world-weary teens with grimaces as though they were Atlas himself) showed up, picking up the needles and making all the same sorts of quips she'd heard before. The "haha, my grandmother does this" followed by the "is this knitting or the other one?", and, of course--her favorite--the "this doesn't make me look _old_ , right? But Bridget kept her smile, kept it carefully blank, slowed her motions so that everyone might be able to better keep up.

A nudge from the right, a man better settling himself into the foldable chairs she found at the last second. He looks a little strained, too concentrated on the project in front of him, knitting needles looking a little pinched and all-too comical in his delicate grip. His tongue's poking out, tapping at the beginnings of his dark, dark beard, immaculately kept. He cuts a curious figure; swathed in silk but pressing his fingertips against acrylic. Weirdly charming, and--wow--those eyes, they're too intense.

And she knows she's done for when--as though sensing her gaze drawn to him--his own meets hers. "Minister Campion." A _drawl? Jesus wept._ "I believe I've gotten my fingers stuck in the yarn over. Some assistance?"


End file.
